Another Point of View
by hatchlingpendragon
Summary: A continuation of 'Welcome to the Jungle', which involves genderbending of a few characters. It will not be a full repeat of the movie, but will consist of a few favorite scenes. I hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

James stared incredulously at the edge of the clearing, now devoid of creatures, and the foliage was the only thing receiving his stare.  
She, Tarzan, had looked back at him, seeming a bit concerned, but followed at the urge of a gorilla.  
The gorillas...

"You're one of _them_..." he murmured, having seen her friendly tussle with the beasts, and himself being confronted by that alpha male.

A silverback, bigger than Clayton, he'd never appreciated how _huge _they were...

And she'd _defended _him from the silverback, as its _equal_, and now he saw how she fit into the dynamics of the gorilla troop...

"She's one of them..." he repeated. Huh.

"James?! _James!_"

"Mum!" he reacted automatically, as his mother and Mr. Clayton barged into the clearing.

He suffered gladly if faintly the flustered embracing of Mrs. Porter while Clayton looked around the encampment.

"What happened here, Mr. Porter?" the hunter interrogated.

"We were looking everywhere for you! You're alright?" his mother protested.

"Yes, yes," he assured her, straightening up. He was glad to have inherited his father's height, though this at times never stopped his mother from psychologically towering over him, regardless, a silly grin was spreading across his face, "There were...monkeys..."

All at once everything just sort of spilled out, "I was right behind you, honest, there was—monkey! A little baby monkey, baboon! Wanted to draw it, you know, well, picture's gone now, as well as my sketchbook—"

"Thought there was a lot of paper fluttering around here, certainly not an indigenous phenomena..." Mrs. Porter muttered.

"But then, suddenly, the monkey starts crying," he sighed.

"Oh, poor thing..."

"And then there's a _whole **fleet **_of them!" he recalled in horror.

"Of what?!"

"Of monkeys, an army, a whole bloody tree! _Screaming_ at me!" his arms waved wildly, doing a rather good reenactment, he thought.

"Oh, my!"

"It was a _terror_, and I'm running around without a machete and—there's a cliff, a bloody cliff of all things, and then I'm swinging on a _vine—in the air!_—I'm flying, swinging, in the air, and we were surrounded, pursued, and I lost my—they stole my boot, Mum!"  
He showed her his bare foot.

"Oh, they stole your—? That pair was such a good bargain, too..."

"And I was _rescued_..." he continued, the recollection making him blink.

"By a _woman_... A flying wild woman dressed like a savage."

"Savage?"

"Er, well, loincloth..."

"Good heavens!"

"What is your son babbling about, Mrs. Porter?" Clayton growled.

"I haven't the faintest. Takes after his father you know, all those flights of fancy, stories, but well, hardly any about women in loincloths, or not to my hearing, that old badger, of course, but..." the old woman sighed.

"And there were gorillas!" James recounted suddenly.

"Gorillas?!" Clayton's fists caught him by the edges of his vest, "You saw them?! Where, James?!"

"She left with them..." he muttered, absently pushing the man away.

"Who did, dear?" his mother asked.

"Tarzan..." he repeated that strange, oddly fitting name.

"Tarzan?" Clayton repeated, with no little disgruntlement.

"The ape-woman." James concluded, smiling like a fool at the thick foliage where he'd last seen her.

* * *

When things were a bit more calmed down, and the camp a bit more straightened out, he set up a chalkboard.

"She didn't stand upright, understand," he mentioned, starting with the curve of the spine and the locks of wild hair, the basic shape and bearing of her, "But she sort...of..._crouched_, like that," she had strong, lean legs and arms, even when hunched like an animal, and he nearly drew _everything _but was quick to cover it up by drawing more hair. He coughed as his mother giggled, "Like _this_," he continued, "Supporting her weight on her knuckles."

"On the knuckles!" Mrs. Porter exclaimed.

"_Exactly _like a gorilla!" he finished triumphantly.

"Extraordinary!"

"Oh, it was fascinating! She'd bend her elbows out, like this," he crouched down to demonstrate, "And then she walks, like this, making sounds like a gorilla." this time the reenactment was probably rather shoddy, but his mother tried it herself, "Oh, I see! This is capital! Oh, Jamie, what a discovery! A woman with no developed language center, no behaviorisms of the _homo sapiens—_!"

"And no sense of personal boundaries..." James added wryly.

"How do you mean?" his mother asked, and he lurched towards her, "She was _this_ close, _this close_, Mother, _staring_ at me!"

He got up off the ground, turning thoughtfully to the chalk drawing, ". . . She'd seemed...confused at first, actually..."

He needed to add a finishing touch to the face, he picked up the chalk, "As if she'd never seen another human before..."

A few, sharpened ovals, open, slender shaping of the brow, "Her eyes were intense, focused... I'd never seen such eyes..."

He stepped back to look at it clearly. It was only a shadow to the flesh and blood, but the eyes seemed to stare.

"Shall I leave you and the chalkboard alone for a moment?" Mrs. Porter asked with a chuckle.

He whirled around to reproach her, "Mum, please! The point is, think of what we could learn from her! We must find her!"

"Oh, Mrs. Porter!" Clayton interrupted, "You're here to find the gorillas, not indulge some _boy's _fever fantasy!"

"Fantasy?!" James protested, could he have honestly drawn something like that from a fantasy?!

"She was no fantasy, Mr. Clayton! I did not imagine her! Tarzan is—"

She dropped in front of him in all her savage, half-clothed splendor.

"Real!" James squawked as she smiled up at him, and with remarkable speed slung off his vest and managed to somewhat put it on her.

"Tarzan! It's her! It's-it's Tarzan!" Mrs. Porter stuttered, pointing excitedly.

"Both of you, stand back!" Clayton shouted, shoving between him and Tarzan while levelling his gun.

"Wait!" his mother shouted.

"No!" James roared, quickly shoving up the gun barrel before it shot her, the blast echoing into the sky.

"Clayton!" a young female voice rasped.

". . . What?" Mrs. Porter blinked.

"Clayton!" the wild woman repeated, smiling as if she hadn't just nearly had her face shot off.

"Have we met? How does she know my name?" Clayton asked, quickly cooling off. Bloody hunter.

"She thinks it means the sound of a gunshot." James explained briskly, quickly reaching down to button the vest a little.

"James." she continued happily, leaning in, a knuckle briefly brushing his cheek, and he coughed.

"Yes, hello, um, Tarzan."

She quickly left him to inspect the others when his mother had leaned in to get a closer look.

"Oh, I see what you meant about those personal boundaries, James!" she laughed, letting the younger woman fiddle with her hat and the curls of her hair, seeming to sniff at her while doing so, curiously.

"What is she _doing?" _Clayton asked, a bit indignant as Tarzan circled him, the vest slightly tightening over her shoulders as she moved.

"Look at her, James," Mrs. Porter said, clearly delighted, as Tarzan mimicked Clayton's stance, "She moves like an ape yet looks like a human!  
James, this could be the missing link!"

"Or our link to the gorillas..." Clayton reminded them suddenly, and Mrs. Porter nodded absently, "Ah, yes, that too!"

Clayton turned back to Tarzan, "Where are the gorillas?" he asked, and glared when she squinted at his nose, "GO-RILL-AS!" he shouted.

"GO-RILL-AS!" she shouted back, making Mrs. Porter burst out laughing as the woman tried, and failed, to emulate Clayton's baritone.

James chuckled a bit hopelessly, "It's no use shouting, Mr. Clayton, she doesn't understand English."

"Well, then, I'll _make _her understand." Clayton decided, striding to the chalkboard.

"If I can teach a parrot to sing 'God Save the Queen'," he said as he wiped the board clean with a swipe of his forearm.

"Then I can certainly teach a _savage _a thing or two, and a female, no less!" Tarzan was watching as he stood back.

"Gorilla!" Clayton proclaimed, gesturing with the chalk piece to the most hideous drawing of the specie to make James wince.

Tarzan snatched the chalk out of his hand, turning it over in her own, "Gorilla..." she repeated, glancing at the chalkboard.

"Oh, she's got it!" his mother said happily.

Tarzan jumped on top of the chalkboard, and began scribbling all over it, "Gorilla, gorilla, gorilla, go-o-o-_rill_-a!"

"Oh, well, perhaps not..." his mum continued with a shrug.

"No, no, no, no, _no!" _the hunter protested, shooing at her.

"No, no, no, no, _no!" _she said back, waving the chalk in his face, and scrambling over Clayton when he took it from her.

"No—no, _aargh!"_

Clayton was unsuccessfully trying to shove her off while keeping hold of the chalk, and she was quite determined.

"Mr. Clayton!" James interceded, shoving them apart, if gently to Tarzan.

He let out a breath, "I'll take it from here."

* * *

Later, as James was making a list of things he anticipated needing to teach his new pupil, his mother sidled over.

"James?" she questioned, and he was listening, if absently, "Yes, mum?"

"Do you suppose our Mr. Clayton...tills in other fields?"

He frowned, looking up from his list to look at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well," she adjusted her vest a bit, "It's easy to see that Tarzan is quite an attractive young woman, if exotic, in such attire, no less. And she'd been literally climbing all over the man, you'd think he might have, well, you know, taken a bit of a cop, unless...?"

A flush he'd thought he'd banished since he got Tarzan to keep the vest immediately was reborn.

_"Good Lord, Mother!" _

She back-pedaled, "Or I might be wrong, don't mind me!" she laughed, a bit embarrassed, and went off to work with more of her contraptions.

James stared at nothing in particular, and proceeded to briefly bash his forehead against his desk.

He was seeing the appeals of 'going savage'.

* * *

"Okay," Terk asked, staring at her friend, "What is that thing, and why is it on ya?"

"It's called a _vest_," Tarzan replied, tugging at it, a bit uncomfortable, but interesting. "James gave it to me." she added, smiling a bit.

"Tuh, _James_, again?" Terk scowled, "Ya better not let Kerchak see ya wearin' that. He'll go all 'strange creature bad' on ya."

"I'll change it." she admitted, already working on tearing off the strange stone that hooked it together. "Make it look like I made it."

"Good, 'cause it looks stupid." the female gorilla snorted, munching on some fruit.

Tarzan looked from Terk back down to the vest, frowning, it looked a bit silly maybe, but it might be a good thing.

When it was a bit looser, it already felt more comfortable. She'd just have to break it in.


	2. Chapter 2

"Tarzan, what is that?"

". . . James-vest."

"Are you sure?" he laughed, "It doesn't look like mine."

She shifted a bit on her haunches, one hand absently picking at the fringe of the new 'vest' she'd clearly made. It was basically a loose, ragged 'shirt', made of the same unknown material as her loincloth, held on by a loop around her neck and waist. But he could easily see she was ashamed, so he was quick to console her, "It's alright, Tarzan, I don't mind. I'm happy that you made one yourself."  
It looked a lot better on her. "Was something wrong with the other one?"

"Terk." she admitted.

James seemed confused, as he often was, but took her answer in stride, as he always did.

She'd had to make a new vest, yes. The other one had worn out too easily, and it still smelled strongly like _him_. There was no way she could've passed it by as her own without Kerchak finding out. Kala certainly suspected something when she made it, but she simply said it was comfortable like fur, and made it less likely for her to get scratched. But she made sure to sneak the vest around with her when the troop moved, and wove it into any new nest she made, secretly indulging in its scent.

It had made sleeping a lot easier.

But she would not, and couldn't yet know how to, tell James that yet.

* * *

James was both alarmed and thrilled by the potential challenge of Education.

He was essentially teaching a grown woman what most children had learned from near-birth.

Language was the most imperative, followed by reading, culture, and an elementary understanding of the sciences.

It did not help that said woman had other 'obligations' to her other life that sometimes hindered schooling, or surpassed it.

Oh, but it was fascinating. When they'd shown her astronomy, and the telescope, it appeared she'd had a base understanding of the stars, at least the brighter ones, and had made her own 'pictures' at times, for instance Ursa Major had become what she roughly called 'Kerchak'.

She'd watched the night sky and one could've clearly seen how her eyes were 'open', reflecting the little pinpoints of light.

His mother had been delighted to see how human imagination still grew and performed in an animal upbringing.

Tarzan was infinitely fascinated with the contraptions of England and some of mother's inventions.  
The moving picture toy, the globe, the bicycle, the record player, books, watches, and most of all the slide machine.

Her mind was hungry, he'd discovered, given how quickly she'd adapted to his instruction.

And sometimes Education wasn't his only interest in teaching her.

She showed him things, birds, the wilds, the places any English explorer wouldn't have dared to think of investigating,  
and her world was beautiful.

She tried to dance with him, and he was glad to teach her, though the positions of the formal dances left him placing a hand on bare skin where there might've been the cloth of a dress, but she hadn't minded, and he soon learned not to, and began to simply enjoy the innocent 'savagery'.

Mr. Clayton was not so appreciative of this 'innocence', trying to show her maps when she clearly couldn't relate a picture to her innate understanding of geography, and appeared to not want to. And James was disappointed at this, but he didn't blame her.

Sometimes he wondered, though, when she retreated back to her jungle, if they shouldn't have taught her. They would be leaving soon, nearly within a month, and the prospect of bringing her to the last conflict between her nature and the new thing she was becoming _scared _him.

Was he ruining this woman? This 'innocence'? Was he corrupting something that in some circles would've been considered sacred?

Might she hate him, eventually, for making her a conflicting hybrid?

But no, he chided himself, as he was sketching, or watching her work the slide machine, a childlike expression of delight crossing her lean, gently-angled face as she changed out the slides with a dexterous speed, absorbing the pictures with her eyes like a cloth would water.

No, he saw how happy she was, and how he enjoyed her company.  
He was falling asleep on the chair as he watched her, and found he was happy.

How could this happiness be a bad thing?

* * *

She could watch him, when he didn't think she was there to watch. These creatures were easy to sneak up on, and infinitely amazing to be with.

She got to know things, she was shown things, and she wanted more, and was soon seeing things differently. When she looked up at the stars, she thought of the telescope and the stories behind those stars. She found new ways to use the vines when they taught her 'leverage'.  
She found new ways to see and know things that happened by reading them from books.  
It was like she found a new way to grow up and be a better ape, and she liked most of them for it.

Porter-Mum was always moving, always excited, and exciting, always willing to show her new things, and was fun to be with.

Clayton was loud, roaring, always exposing his teeth, clearly the 'Alpha' to this group, even having some gray in his head-fur, his 'hair', but he was not her 'Alpha', so she made sure not to challenge him, and worked instead to avoid him and find James, instead. He wasn't a very good Alpha anyway. He'd probably be challenged soon, anyway, and she hoped it was James who would challenge him.

James was quiet, not like the other male he was with, and always made those wonderful 'pictures' that were like reflections but weren't. He'd shown her pictures of birds, of plants, and herself. She was pleased he liked to make pictures of her, and found that looking at them was...odd. Exciting, but odd.

She felt a bit of pride, a bit of confusion, and a bit of worry.

Pride, was that James drew her and liked drawing her. Confusion, why did he, and what did he like about doing it? Worry, was she considered as nice to draw as the other things he drew, and what if he didn't want to any more? But then, he was happy here, and often told her so, in a James-way.

She liked it that he was here, to draw and talk and be quiet and thinking and be what he was _for her_.

This was where she realized she wanted James. She wanted James to be hers, and wanted him to have her in return.

He would be a good mate, even if he wasn't an Alpha. He was strong, in his kind's way, and quiet, and watchful, like a good leader, and the way he watched her made her happy, and feel protected, interesting, like something special. She decided she truly did want James.

But how to show him this, properly? What she knew and tried didn't work for his kind. She made sure to touch him often, keep her eyes on him, constantly give her approval, but he'd laugh or go red in the face. It was obvious that he was considering her, the way he watched her, but he wasn't responding to her, so clearly she had to try it his way. She looked at pictures of the slide machine, of the females in their things called 'dresses', and looked down at her own things. Her things matched well enough, didn't they? . . . Yes, they did.

Then she saw The Picture, and stopped to look at it.

It was of a female, wearing a simple dress, standing straight and approaching the male, leaning in and up to display her interest, a hand on the male's chest, near his heart, and her other hand on her own heart, keeping eye contact. The female wore flowers in her hair, hair long and down and dark like Tarzan's own, the flowers were considered 'pretty', and her approach was clearly accepted as the male's arms looked like they were going to hold the female.

So this was their courting. She found it.

She smiled at the picture, and then back at James, who was sleeping in the chair, and smiled again.

She'd court him tomorrow, and James would be hers, and they'd both be even happier.


	3. Chapter 3

James wasn't going to be hers.

She'd found flowers, and put them in her hair, a lot to make sure, but when she went down to their nesting place, many other strange males were taking all the things away to the shore, making the place empty, different, and confusing.  
Clayton and James were shouting at each other until Clayton left.

She ran into James, knocking a few flowers out of her hair. He'd been packing things. He had told her they were going back to their England, that he had to go back. He wanted to take her with him, and she was happy that he did, but she couldn't leave the troop for very long.

But it would've been nice to see his home...

"Go see England today, come home tomorrow!" she decided, smiling. Problem solved!

"Oh, no, well, you see, it...it'd be very difficult to come back...ever..." James told her sadly.

She frowned, 'ever' was a very long time, "Not come back...?"

"No, no, no," he held her shoulders gently, "I know it sounds bad, Tarzan, but you belong with us, with m—with _people_..."

She tried then, the courting, standing straight, nearly his height, placing her hand on his heart.

"James must stay with Tarzan." she told him, leaning in and up, breaking eye contact briefly to check and place her hand on her own heart. There.

He looked down at her, but instead of holding her he was backing away from her touch. _Oh no..._

"St-stay here...?" He stumbled back into a trunk, and it fell open with a crash, "Oh, my books—I can't, no, I-I can't stay." He was quickly trying to put the books back, "Tarzan, I mean, my Mum still needs me and—"

She leaned in again, maybe he just misunderstood, and touched him again, taking a flower from her hair, showing it to him.

"James, stay..." she repeated, hopefully putting the flower in the hand that was reaching for where she touched his heart.

"B-but I—" he stammered, not taking the flower, still almost backing away.

"_Please_." she said, offering the flower.

He looked down her, many strange expressions on his face, "T-Tarzan, I... I _can't_..."

He backed off and turned away from her, quickly walking away from her, his hand clenching at the back of his head, his hair, almost angrily.

James left her.

She stared, a few more flowers falling out of her own hair, still holding on to the one she'd offered him.

She quickly felt Clayton's presence at her shoulder, "Men at that age are so fickle with their actions," he sighed, "Wine, dear?"

She took the cup, but didn't drink. James left her.

"They just have so many _trust issues_, insecurities and the like," the Alpha-hunter continued, putting a hand on her shoulder, "Even if you weren't a savage he'd still be as dodgy as if you were dragging him to the altar. It's an unavoidable fact of life, madam."

"James is going." she muttered, placing the glass on a trunk.

"Yes, if only he'd gotten to see the gorillas." the large man shook his head, "He's so disappointed about it, despairing, really. Sorry, my girl.  
Oh, well, I best get Mr. Porter's books to the ship, and then we'll all be underway quite shortly..."

She blinked.

"Clayton!" she said quickly, grabbing his sleeve, "If James sees gorillas, he stays?"

Clayton smiled down at her, "I do believe so! That's why he's here, isn't he?"

She thought it over, and nodded, "I'll show them."

Clayton's smile broadened, "Good girl!" and he went to go tell others to wait before going to the ship.

She ran back into the jungle, shedding the rest of the flowers, needing to hurry to take care of things for James.

* * *

"Nuh-uh, _no _way!" Terk snapped.

Tarzan shook her head, "Terk, c'mon, all you need to do is get Kerchak out of the way!"

"I'd be perfectly happy to get Kerchak out of the—" Tantor started, but Terk interrupted.

"Shut yer trunk and get me outta here!" Terk growled, moving them away from Tarzan, who went over them through the trees.

"Can ya believe her? Drops us like a newborn giraffe—kerPLOP!—then waltzes back in here and expects us t'—"

She landed in front of Terk on Tantor's back, pleading, "Terk, I'm asking you as a _friend_..."

She pouted hopefully at Terk, who reared back with reluctance scrawling on her face, "Gah, the face and th' eyes and—_f-fine!_"

Tarzan hugged the female gorilla, wrestling gratefully, "Thank you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Terk grumbled, shoving her off, "But don't make me do anythin' _embarrassing_..."

* * *

"I'm gonna KILL HER!" Terk roared, as she stumbled around in Porter-Mum's dress.

The both of them were being chased by a ticked-off, territorial Kerchak.

Tantor's trunk was adorned with James' suit and vest, with brown weeds for a wig.

Fashion advice was argued over practicality versus aesthetics as they ran for their forseeable lives.

* * *

James was still acting strange around Tarzan, but was happy when she led him and some of the group to the nesting place.

"Mama?" Tarzan pleaded, as Kala was backing away, "Mama, please, it's okay, these are my friends..."

"You shouldn't have brought them here..." Kala muttered, but was coming back out.

Tarzan was happy when James recognized that Kala was beautiful.

"She's my mother..." she said, a bit proudly, as Kala looked James over.

"Y-your mother? I—oh..." James muttered, looking down at the she-ape in return.

Kala smiled a bit, "Not quite what I would've chosen for you in a mate," she told Tarzan, "But he'll be fine..."

Porter-Mum was already meeting more of the troop.

Tarzan smiled, as she was already teaching James how to speak, while he proved he was good with the troop children.

Yes, things would be fine...

Then Terk and Tantor stumbled in, along with Kerchak.

Oh, no.

James gaped, "M-Mum, is that your _dress_?! And-and is that my _suit_?!"

Terk waved nervously.

Kerchak was not pleased.


	4. Chapter 4

Tarzan hated ships, and now thought that shoes and skirts were stupid creations.

Tarzan hated guns, and Clayton, and everything that would threaten her family.

Tarzan was quite ready to defend her family.

* * *

_. . ._

_"You came back."_

_"I came __**home**__."_

. . .

* * *

_. . ._

_"Go ahead, **shoot** me. Be a human **being**..." _

_. . ._

* * *

She nearly did. The gun barrel was right there, under his jaw. Her other arm was limp and useless, but she had the upper hand. All she had to do was move her finger and watch his head erupt like twisted tree bark, and become something that was no longer a threat to her and hers.

It would've been _all too easy_...

But then she'd have used the gun, the gun that... She thought of Kerchak. She thought of what it meant to have her discovered 'humanity'.

This was not Sabor, this was a mere man who did not understand what a human being was, what a hunter was.

She would not let this person cheat her own from her. He began to laugh, and she jammed the gun again under his jaw.

Her finger tensed, and...

She made the sound of the gunshot, of the 'Clayton', just to have that satisfaction of seeing the defeated _flinch_.

She snarled, _"Not one like **you**!"_

She destroyed the gun, and the jungle destroyed Clayton.

* * *

_. . ._

_"Tarzan..."_

_"Kerchak, forgive me..."_

_"No..._

_Forgive me...for not understanding that you have always been one of us..._

_Our family will look to you, now..."_

_"No, Kerchak, please...!"_

_"Take care of them...my daughter... T...take care of them..."_

_. . ._

* * *

"Mum..." James whispered, as in the gently fading rain, Tarzan straightened from the dead silverback. She'd taken on a new stance, a new expression as she faced her troop, one that put a strange uncertainty in him. She'd become an Alpha.

"Mum, can she _do_ this...?"

"I...I don't know..." Mrs. Porter murmured. "I've heard of matriarchal troops, for survival, but this is unprecedented..."

James swallowed.

Theory or not, Tarzan was a female Alpha. She spared the remaining humans a passing glance, before straightening on her arms, one slick and glistening with blood from the bullet wound, signalling her troop to move on, and leading them away from the clearing and their fallen leader and James.

This place was no longer safe for nesting.

* * *

. . .

Tarzan hated ships. The ships were taking James away again, forever.

Then suddenly, Tarzan learned what a kiss was.

Tarzan liked kisses.

. . .

* * *

. . .

James told everyone, "James stays with Tarzan."

Tarzan had every good reason to howl her triumph into the sky that day.

James loved Tarzan.

And Tarzan loved James.

. . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:** _This, and most likely the chapters following, will be hypothetical scenes after the facts of the movie involving our favorite characters.  
Thank you!_

* * *

Tarzan hated ships. Given her experiences first associated with the vessels, James couldn't blame her.

But when a docking port and general store were planned and in fact being built, the wild woman had understandably been displeased.

"They can't _come here._" she snarled at him, looking in the direction of the shore from the tree house they'd renovated.

James was quick to reassure her, "Tarzan, darling, the people who are working with _these _ships aren't going to be like Clayton's people from the last one, and they'll only be at the port. I promise. No one is going to hurt the family, or us." He sighed as she growled and continued to glare with a hunter's intent.

He, too, felt some distaste in the 'tainting' of this place.

But such a renovation was necessary, and in fact unavoidable.

England had searched for a foothold to the ports of the more populated places of the African mainland.

Tarzan's land provided such a foothold, especially since it was now recognized by the Symposium as a point of interest for research.

Fortunately, Tarzan's fame and the Porter research allowed James' mother to negotiate the land as a supply stop only, by law to be untouched by poaching, resource procurement, or settling, except for those recognized by Tarzan, who was acknowledged as a rudimentary dignitary by other lands.

Plus, and James wouldn't tell Tarzan this, he and his mother still needed a connection with Mother England, however much of a paradise this place was. He figured he was slightly spoiled or selfish in this regard, but contact to old friends, supplies, and such comforts like tea and coffee, were luxuries he'd missed.

However, that man who was becoming superintendent of the port unnerved James. What was his name? Ren...Renard Dumont, Frenchman.

That Dumont fellow had taken an awfully friendly interest in Tarzan, James' _wife_.

His wife.

He glanced at the ring around his finger, already gaining a slight patina, and then its counterpart on Tarzan's own hand.

Hers was scuffed, chipped, and dull, and looked slightly awkward on her instinctively curled fingers, but it was cherished, even if its shine had kept startling her in the first days of her bearing it. He'd catch her thumbing it with the other hand, scrubbing it carefully in water, turning her appendage this way and that to try and catch that shine again. The wedding had certainly been memorable, and the engagement long.

First, they'd had to contact and convince a priest to come marry them, as Tarzan wouldn't and couldn't leave her land.

Several letters to this effort had been met with insulted confusion, disbelieving humor, asking whether Tarzan was accepted into the faith, or, in fact, criticizing whether she qualified in any human sense for any legal documentation, and that she should have been in England under a 'doctor's care'.

James had an admittedly vindictive pleasure of destroying that particular letter.

Eventually, a rather odd priest had come along, but by that time James was willing to thank any man who'd come.

It had been a bit surreal, indeed humorous, for the priest to meet Tarzan's 'parent/guardian', a lovely gorilla named Kala who had long given her consent and with much bemusement had questioned why such a thing took so long. Such were the silly ways of humans, she'd supposed.

Likewise, there were explanations necessary for Tarzan during the engagement period. She had no prior understandings (or patience, among other things) for such a procedure, her understandings being such that the engagement had been a tempestuous, tempting wreck for James, but that was another matter altogether. As it was, the priest had managed to have a lengthy, private talk with his fiancée before the ceremony was arranged. He never knew what he told her, but had found the woman a lot more thoughtful afterwards. He wanted to question, of course, to discuss, what did she understand? How did she feel?

But somehow...he never did, and somehow never felt he had to.

They had the rings, the priest, the groom, his mother had modified a white dress, which had, along with Tarzan's beautiful vitality, made the picture-perfect bride. The bridesmaid was a spunky gorilla named Terk, the best man had been Tantor, an African elephant who had a remarkable affinity for hygiene, and the wedding reception had been a virtual food free-for-all between the gorilla troop acting as guests. Mum and the priest had joined in too.

It was then that he learned that Tarzan did not have high tolerance for sugar.

Just another delightful thing to discover about his new wife.

It had been a wonderful wedding, and the wedding night...well, a greater matter altogether.

This didn't, however, change that she had a base, straightforward hatred for ships, and all things associated with them.

Or at least, it seemed. Perhaps her hostility would dim, with adjustment. He hoped.

* * *

Tarzan waited until James was busy with his books.

She sneaked into Porter-Mum's nest-room, and looked at Porter-Mum's books, Porter-Mum's things, and found what she often did.

Here was the map, telling her how far England was from Tarzan's place.

Here were the pictures of ships, now 'nice', big and fat and full of nice England things that made James happy.

Here were the pictures of England females, strange, and interesting, and not Tarzan.

Here were the small, thin books that Porter-Mum thought she hid well. These were full of all things for the England female, the colors, the clothes, the pretty, shiny hair that looked so much like James' own: soft and good-smelling, and not Tarzan.

These small thin books told Tarzan how these females with their things were far more desirable for England males.

These were things James' thought Tarzan didn't know he missed. She heard the males on the ships talk of their females, about their red lips and dark eyes and pretty clothes and all things that Tarzan didn't see in herself. She looked at the pretty ring on her finger, and clenched her hand.

It hadn't taken her long to understand 'pretty', and its different types. She was worried that she wasn't the right type.

James was hers, he told her so, and she was his, they both knew so, and reminded each other often.

But Tarzan wasn't an England female, and James was an England male, but he was _here_, so she hadn't worried.

But now these ships were here, full of things of England, surely James would miss it, and the ships would take him away.

She really didn't worry any more about ships taking away her family. Now she worried about them taking away her James.

Tarzan couldn't let this happen, she couldn't let England, or an England female, take James back.

She didn't want to share him.

She thought about it, and decided the best way to prevent sharing James was to become as desirable as an England female.

So now she studied the books of Porter-Mum's.

The hair was easy enough, she'd pulled a lot of it back into a tail, which kept it out of her face.

Baring the face must be a sign of availability, openness, and so, desirable.

Then, the red lips. Easy enough, find some red fruit, smashing out the juice and spreading it over them colored them easily.

Maybe this meant that the female hunted or fed well, and so would be a good mother for bearing and caring for children? If so, desirable.

She wasn't sure about the dark eyes, but she was sure it didn't mean to color the _eyes _directly. She found some cooled dark ash from the fire pit and smoothed and ground it gently in around her eye sockets, blinking. She looked at herself in a mirror, frowning. Maybe mud would've been better.

Perhaps this was to make the female look intimidating, a good protector, a watchful mate. If so, desirable.

The clothing, though, was where she was lost.

She glared at the pictures in the small, thin book, wanting to threaten these females at spear-point to tell her why they wore what they did.

They showed as much skin as Tarzan, if paler, but she couldn't do anything about that.

She turned another page, and blinked. She turned the book over in her hand, and a bunch of connected pages fell out to show a big picture.

She stared. Oh.

So that was why. Nice, removable plumage, indicating good health underneath. Desirable. Alright.

So she needed nice, removable plumage to prove her health and desirability.

She searched through more of Porter-Mum's things.

She found something in an old trunk like what she saw in the pictures of the females, but it looked much too small for Porter-Mum.

She used the book as a reference, and tried to put the shell-thing on, and almost couldn't breathe while trying.

It was almost too small for _Tarzan_.

She was in the middle of trying to turn it around, when an oil-lamp shown in the doorway.

She turned to the door to see Porter-Mum. She didn't know whether to smile or run away.

Porter-Mum looked at Tarzan and _screamed_.

Tarzan quickly jumped up, trying to find what threatened Porter-Mum, when the woman backed away before stopping.

"Th-that's you, isn't it, Tarzan?" she asked.

Tarzan nodded, a bit ashamed at the mess she made of Porter-Mum's nest-room.

"Oh, thank heavens..." the female sighed, putting a hand to her chest.

"Are you alright, Mum?!" James called out from below, running up the stairs, and Tarzan tensed. _She wasn't ready._

"I'm just fine, dear, sorry for the scare!" Porter-Mum called back, after quickly looking at Tarzan, "Just a surprise jungle visitor, of a fascinating specie, and, oh, er, womanly things, all that! Nothing to concern you with! Don't come up here!"

"Er, alright... I'll...be down here...?" he replied hesitantly, out of sight, stopping just a few steps below.

"Good boy!" she called back, and then firmly shut the door behind her, setting the oil-lamp on the dresser. Tarzan hunched miserably.

They heard James stand on the step for a moment, a creak of shifting weight, before they heard him go back down.

"Well..." Porter-Mum said after a moment, sitting on the bed and clasping her hands on her lap, "I'm not one to discourage war paint, womanly or otherwise, but this, er, surprised me, dear. I adore you when I say this, but, whatever you're doing, you're doing it wrong, and I'm not sure for an entirely right reason."

Tarzan blinked, confused at the words and the woman's stare, and noticed that she was staring at the book at Tarzan's feet, the one with the Big Page.

She quickly kicked it under the bed, and the shell-thing she'd been trying to put on sagged, unclosed at the back.

Porter-Mum chuckled, "That's a corset, love, slightly out of fashion and not very practical for a young lady such as yourself."

"It is for the England ladies, their females." Tarzan pointed out, trying to catch the strings, turning circles in doing so.

". . . Ah."

Porter-Mum smiled, patting the bed, "Well, let me help you with it then, and then let's see how much you think it's worth."

Tarzan hesitated, uncertain, but sat/perched on the bed next to Porter-Mum, back facing the woman.

She felt the elderly female brush aside her hair and tug at the strings.

"My, my, your efforts made a veritable Gordian Knot back here, Tarzan, this'll take a moment..."

Tarzan nodded uneasily, feeling the woman's hands—hands usually clumsy in her natural excitement—as they smoothly and gently unstrung the strings through the little holes that line the back of the thing called a corset.

"Care to tell me what all the hullabaloo's about, hm?"

". . . James." Tarzan admittedly quietly.

"Oh, isn't it just? I figured, you know, with your newfound interest in aesthetics. But what, specifically, is wrong with James?  
Is he neglecting you?"

"Neglecting?" Tarzan asked.

"You know, issues in the boudoir? Trouble in paradise? Running out of candle wick?"

When Tarzan was still confused, Porter-Mum sighed, "Is he failing his duties as a husband, er, as a mate?"

Tarzan shook her head quickly, "No, James is good. _Very_ good." she assured her, smiling.

Porter-Mum coughed, smiling a bit herself, finishing the cross-lacing, "Well, glad to hear that, I suppose. What's wrong, then?"

"England." Tarzan sighed, then her breath hitched slightly as Porter-Mum tugged on the strings a bit, feeling the corset start to close on her ribs.

"Don't panic, dear, just testing the give. This's an old piece, you know. What about England?"

Tarzan felt embarrassed, but Porter-Mum listened, "England ships with things, nice things," Tarzan growled, "Nice, England females."

"Ah, but those women are in England, not here, and certainly not with the ships. Bit of a silly thing to worry about, isn't it?"

"But James—" Tarzan squawked and nearly snarled at Porter-Mum when she yanked at the cords, "_Ur-r-rk!_ J-James will m—_snarl_—miss England, and-and its females who aren't Tarzan, and will want another _mate!" _she gasped when Porter-Mum gave a particularly fierce pull. She underestimated the strength of England females, another thing she had to surpass.

"I don't...don't want to share him..." she panted.

"I _see_." Porter-Mum 'hmm'ed, sounding oddly cheerful, but her teeth were bared.

"Oh, this thing is so difficult to close properly, I fear. We'll need you to stand up, now."

Tarzan swallowed, which was difficult, given it felt like this thing was a snake or a gorilla male trying to crush her.

"Tarzan," Porter-Mum continued, standing on a stool while she made Tarzan brace her hands on the wall, "We explained to you about how our 'mating' process works, hadn't we? The engagement, the meaning of the wedding and the ring you wear, and so on?"

". . . Yes." Tarzan admitted.

"And what does it mean, Tarzan?"

"That I am James'," she nearly heaved as the corset tightened _even more_, "A-and that James is mine. Only his. Only mine. A promise."

"And do you think that _my son _would so easily forget his promise?"

Tarzan was quiet, "I-I don't..." but her voice was a grudging mumble.

Porter-Mum 'tsk'ed, "Dreadful ties, these. When had it last been worn? Well, if you have any doubts with the promise, we can take care of that simply enough. You can take off that ring you wear and throw it on to the next ship that heads to England."

"What?!" Tarzan roared, but the hold of the corset didn't let her round on the female, who gave it a hardy yank to stop her.

"Think of it, Tarzan, if you find that James would be an unwilling mate who would fall for the next Englishwoman he sees, what better way to spare the both of you than leave that ring for the next Englishwoman who finds it, and let _her_ bear the burden of a poor mate easily swayed?"

"James is _not_—"

"Then do not dare to presume that he would be, for you'd be performing a gross hypocrisy, darling." Porter-Mum said calmly.

When Tarzan was silent, having learned the word 'hypocrisy'. Porter-Mum sighed and tied off the top.

Tarzan staggered back, trying to catch her breath.

"You are a fantastic female, Tarzan. An incredible representation of the science of natural humanity, and a _very_ beautiful young woman by any standard. You are unique, exotic, healthy, and very much desirable to James, and dare I say many other males. But you are also quite human, which I understand very much now, given your actions today. I do not judge you for that, Tarzan, understand?"

Tarzan nodded, feeling desperately around the shell that held her. Where were her ribs?!

"I understand that you still think in the ways of your original family. But I do judge you for doubting James _and_ yourself. He left his England for you, Tarzan, and has clearly taken you as the ideal female, proving it with the ring he wears and the vows you both took before _God_, by _Jove_!"

The woman walked in front of Tarzan to glare up at her, hands on her hips, every inch the fearsome matriarch.

"Do you still feel doubt after that?!"

Tarzan shook her head quickly, too cowed and too much out of breath to speak.

Porter-Mum nodded firmly, "Good! And, to further prove my point, Englishwomen have nothing on you. Look in that mirror, Tarzan, and tell me whether you'd think all that war paint and corsetry and submission to vanity is what you wanted. Is it worth it?"

Tarzan obeyed, and stared at the creature in the mirror, comparing it to the pages and the reflection of her 'real' self.

She slowly, firmly, shook her head. "Not worth it." she strangled out.

Porter-Mum sighed happily, reaching up to pat Tarzan's tensed shoulder.

"Do you doubt James?"

"No."

"Do you doubt yourself?"

"N-no."

"Do you think James would find _this _Tarzan we see here attractive?"

Tarzan looked the image up and down, and made a face.

Porter-Mum laughed, "Good. Let's free you of that dreadful thing, then."

Tarzan growled, curling over and forcefully curving her lean, wiry shoulders forward with a grunt.

The corset tightened in protest, and then the top ties, worn and yellowed, frayed with age and frustration, _ripped_ with a stinging snapping. Tarzan took a deep, relieved breath, and it was then loose enough to tear off.

Porter-Mum clapped happily, "Well done, my girl! Never liked that model, anyway."

She helped Tarzan take it off, and then cleaned off her face.

"Now," she said, while they straightened up the nest-room, "I won't tell James about your little experiment and the reasons for it, you know, the catalogues and corsets and all, and you won't tell him that I had these catalogues. Or that corset. Er, you didn't find the garter belt, did you?"

Tarzan frowned, "The what?"

"Never mind, dear! Trivial matter! What's in the past stays there, what?"

Porter-Mum shooed her out of the nest-room, "Now go find your husband-mate and do whatever it is I have no business knowing what!  
Good night!"

"Good night." Tarzan replied, and then crouched down and hugged the smaller woman in a gorilla's embrace.

"Thank you." she said, muffled in the woman's shoulder, and felt Porter-Mum pet her hair, "Any time, love."

Porter-Mum suddenly chuckled as Tarzan went to find James.

"I'd ask you to put on a new top, house rules and all, eh? But I don't think that'd be practical at the moment, would it?"

Tarzan grinned, blushing a little, and vaulted down the stairs with renewed, spontaneous enthusiasm.

* * *

James woke in the bed that morning with a quiet groan, feeling with some primal satisfaction the ache of worn muscle.

He looked over to where his wife had curled into him, face half-buried between the sheets and his shoulder.

He chuckled a bit nervously, pleased and still slightly confused at Tarzan's actions that evening.

* * *

_"Hello, Tarzan! Are you al—nmph?!"_

. . .

_"Good to—hm—see you too, darling. Oh, you washed your face, er, where are we go—? Can't I just finish this—?"_

_"We go to nest-room."_

_"Oh, okay, it can wait."_

_"Let the ships come." she told him with a slightly unsettling grin._

_He laughed, surrendering himself as her not-so-unwilling captive as she dragged him to their room. _

_"I'm, uh, pleased you're being accepting now, Tarzan, but what is—?"_

_"The ships won't have James. Tarzan will."_

_He found quite quickly that he could brook no argument with such a convincing statement._

_After that there was no more communication of the verbal sort._

* * *

"Good morning, love." he told her, kissing the sliver of forehead showing through her wild hair as she stirred.

She grunted indistinctly, moving closer to him, and he gladly held her.

". . . Tarzan loves James." she mumbled, hiding her face against him.

He chuckled, moving to tilt her chin up and kiss her proper, "And James loves Tarzan." he replied warmly.

She looked at him and looked at his hand, and stared at the ring. She moved her ring-less hand to press it against his, palm to palm and fingers to fingers, and shifted to show her own ring, and they both smiled.

They relaxed a bit more, simply enjoying the comfort of morning, before Tarzan spoke up again.

"James?"

"Yes, Tarzan?"

"What does 'running out of candle wick' mean?"

James frowned, repeating the words again silently. Then he thought about it, and then he flushed.

"MOTHER!"

And then not too much later:

"CLOTHES!"

And then quite soon after that:

"NEVER MIND, MOTHER!"

* * *

Mrs. Porter chuckled, flushing a little from her seat in the drawing-room, sipping from her morning cup.

She looked at the catalogue she'd ordered discreetly. It was much more up-to-date.

The materials looked much nicer, certainly, and much more tasteful, more aware of the female musculature.

It was a rather crude interest, she understood, not very scientific at all.

But the young had their hobbies, and interests, and Mrs. Porter had indeed once been young, and was now quite nostalgic, and found herself reminiscing of those days once she discovered her daughter-in-law's insecurities.

She flipped through another page, humming thoughtfully.

Maybe Tarzan could one day appreciate that not all things from England were bad.

But that would be a social experiment for another day.

* * *

**Author's note: **_This was probably a bit more 'raunchy' than the behaviors of the time, I might understand. But an open-minded individual would be an open-minded individual, and who am I to not explore such a notion? _


	6. Chapter 6

The place was simply known as the Trading Post, composed of a general store, mailing center, rustic restaurant, and pub.

It was very young in its existence, as far as such establishments go. It wasn't too unique in stock or services besides what one would expect at such a port. At least, not beyond such services offered to the generic sea traveller.

What gave it its distinction was its proprietor, its location, and its...odd clientèle.

The proprietor was a Frenchman, with a very distinctive knack for business. Renard Dumont might have been one of slightly questionable moral character, but his deals were sound, and his acquirements were quite noteworthy. How else could he have founded such a place?

The port itself was new, and the site practically legendary. It was an academic hotspot, as well as a strategically sound foothold between the ports of England and Morocco, and through that, Africa. It was strange that such a large island hadn't been discovered before, and the fact that it had gorillas, elephants, and an extensive habitat and wildlife almost perfectly unaffected by external influences made it an essential treasure. And that wasn't the only thing unique about it.  
That's where the matter of clientèle came in.

There were the sailors, yes, the tradesmen, the University men, the Archivists, as well as those with the more invested interest in 'big game' or that timeless trivial pursuit of gold, diamonds, and other pretty, shiny things. All in all a very mixed crowd. And then there were the 'locals'...

* * *

Everyone gave a passing glance as the door opened with a ringing bell, and then that glance turned into a double-take that maintained itself as investigating stares towards the newcomer. To those who had stopped in the Trading Post for more than one trip, this appearance was standard, like clockwork. It was the second Thursday of the month, when one of the less-generic shipping lines took to port. To those who hadn't been so frequent, this was an anomaly.

The first glance labeled him as 'hunter', but this observation was quickly dashed by his physique and manner of dress. What kind of a hunter would go about without a gun, and with such a build? It's not that he wasn't strong, but was very lean, and a smattering of various scars was almost offensively displayed by the man's lack of a shirt. Healthy though he may have been, most hunters had the zeal and professional pride to bulk themselves for their business. But he couldn't have been a foreigner: his skin, and his face, though not as pale, still held that light pigmentation and structure of an Englishman.

But what an Englishman!

Dirty, bare feet, workman's trousers with a crude belt, slightly unshaven, and carrying nothing but a satchel over his shoulder and a small hunting knife at his hip, someone would have certainly noticed if he'd came in at the docks! And then the man walked up to the counter.

"Porter." the Frenchman greeted routinely.

"Dumont." the man, Porter, replied, not so benignly, but they appeared familiar. The man's accent confirmed him as English.

"Usual cup and paper, please," he continued, unslinging his satchel and rummaging inside, laying down some currency along with letters in crude envelopes. And then he put down something small wrapped in cloth, slightly steaming with a delicious fragrance, "One of Mum's newest.  
She says hello."

"Merci," Dumont replied, casually slipping it under the counter, exchanging it for a cup of tea and a rolled newspaper, along with a few more letters in kind, "And how is your lovely wife?" This drew interested parties' attentions to the man's hand, where a ring did indeed shine dully.

"_My_ wife is doing quite well, thank you." the strange man answered, with a slightly gritted jaw and smile, before taking his things to a more secluded table, clearly intending to read the newspaper before taking up his letters.

Conversation started up again, but a bit more hushed and with fresher topics, not so much by the sailors as by those from England themselves.

They'd heard, of course, of the original discoverers of this place, and their subsequent...eccentricities...

But to witness it firsthand was something else.

He was contradiction manifest.

His lack of certain clothing articles and of general hygiene bespoke 'savage' or 'boor', yet his posture and demeanor were difficult to criticize. He was quiet, sat properly in his seat, and even wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and so was quite a strange fellow.

The scars were also fascinating. Various scrapes and fresh scabs trail his arms and shoulders, as well as some rather worrisome clawings around his back, and a long-healed gouge near his stomach. But he calmly drank his tea and read his paper and letters as if he were sitting in his own drawing-room at breakfast time, shamelessly half-naked and haggard.

A gentleman savage?

Of course, some persons' inspections weren't nearly this observant. Quite a few simply passed him off as a poor man gone native and continued talking about their own concerns. These persons, in their flippancy, would then not have noticed how the man tilted his head to receive their conversations. Only a few noticed, then, when his body language shifted to alertness when a couple of the men discussed a person of interest, quite loudly.

The conversation was about the phenomena of the 'Missing Link'.

"—can't see what all the fuss is about. 'Missing Link', _tuh_, simply another advertisement for Darwinism."

"Indeed, it is an interesting concept, sure, but what is so special about a savage? You can find them anywhere from here to India. Abandoned by the parents, no doubt, and 'raised' lower than a primitive Neanderthal by apes. Probably picked up all sorts of disgusting habits."

"Oh, most definitely. No doubt _barbaric..._"

The man called Porter had set down his newspaper by this time, and was steadily sipping from his teacup, eyes unfocused.

Renard Dumont was paying an equally blasé interest in the mug he was washing, eyes narrowed, a dry smirk on his face.

Others had quieted down, and were watching the characters with curious interest.

The men continued to talk, "Would be more fitting to just put it up in a zoo exhibit, or a madhouse. It's not as if it would have enough intelligence to survive otherwise. This port is going to expand, my friend, and the teams, too, with all of these plant specimens to study!  
Such a creature would only understand enough to interfere..."

Porter quietly set down his teacup with a light _click_, and Dumont paused, watching warily.

So it understandably startled most onlookers when the man broke into a wide smile as he got up.

"Finche?" he exclaimed, striding over to the table.

One of the two men looked up, startled and slightly indignant at the over-familiar approach of this character.

"Edmund Finche?" Porter repeated, smiling, holding out his hand.

"Er, yes?" the man replied hesitantly, briefly shaking the hand and then quickly wiping off his own.

"Botanist for Cambridge, right? James Porter! I read your paper once on the studies of stomata, decent work, decent work," Porter continued, before rounding on the other man, the one who'd made the 'exhibit' comment, and his face was all teeth and smiles, "And you must be his colleague, Earnest Hemp?" "A business associate, really," Hemp said after a moment, frowning, "I don't think we've met...?"

"James Porter!" Porter repeated, still smiling, and shaking the man's hand quite firmly, "And I wouldn't worry too much about that, man, anyone gets seen by anyone around the educated circles. I lay low, myself, but you must have heard of my mother's work?"

"Y-your mother?" Finche repeated, still slightly taken aback.

"Hypatia Porter." Porter supplied helpfully, as Hemp wrestled his hand from the man's surprising grip.

"Ah, yes, the 'jill-of-all-trades'." Finche sniffed, before remembering his present company, and paled.

But Porter's smile remained all the same, which was somehow worse, "Yes, she does love to dabble, doesn't she? Though I do hope you'd recall a few of her papers concerning the social structures of the _Hominoidea_? It actually wasn't until recently that she'd discovered the, what did you call it? The Missing Link, and she certainly didn't pay homage to Darwinism in doing so. No? Well, it's a fascinating subject all the same."

To the gentlemen's horror Porter sat himself at their table without so much as a 'by your leave'.

Dumont was smiling, but was also carefully putting away a few of the more delicate glasses.

"I understand your interest in the flora," the man continued, "But really, I do think you've pigeonholed the 'Missing Link' phenomena far too quickly, gentlemen. I see an opportunity for discussion, here."

"I hardly think this merits—" Hemp began to protest, before Porter took out his knife.

It wasn't a typical knife of folded steel. Or rather, this was one of flint, as long as his forearm, shaped like a machete.

The blade didn't shine, but its edge looked wicked, and its surface was barely marred by the typical ripples of flaking. The handle was clearly some sort of bone, cleanly wrapped in a dark sort of cloth. It was a fine piece of work.

"Let's start, for instance, on the circumstances surrounding the origin of said phenomena," Porter began, gently laying the knife down on the table in front of him, where it rocked sightly, and he folded his arms on the table, "First, it was evidenced some twenty years ago that a ship en route from England to an unknown destination had an incident of unknown nature, and never made it to port. Bad weather? Corrupted magazine? No one knows. No wreckage or survivors were recovered. But suppose that there were survivors, a small family who managed to get to a lifeboat in time? Let's say a young couple and their baby. And, coincidentally, that not too far off there was an island, uncharted and uninhabited." He knocked on the table, tracing the grain of its wood, smiling, "Wreckage from the ship would harvest decent food and building supplies. So the young couple did their best."

Then he spread his hands, "But, of course, England natives are not used to having a leopard come in their front door..."

His smile was harsher and didn't match his eyes, and the men subtly swallowed.

"Then a gorilla finds the baby," Porter continued, "And, having lost her own child to the leopard, takes the baby for her own."

"Yes, yes, quite a charming sentiment but—" Hemp interrupted with a scoff.

"And the baby _survived_." Porter said, his smile baring at Hemp with such _viciousness _that the man shut up again.

The easier smile was quickly back in place, "The baby survived, gentlemen. Human infants can barely do much more than cry or crawl, with nothing to protect them but those who would give that protection. And the gorilla did. And that's not the only amazing thing," and here he leaned in, "What is the strength of a human child compared to that of a gorilla in the same stage of life?"

When he wasn't answered, he nodded, "It doesn't quite compare, does it? The baby obtained the strength and skill to survive in a family much stronger and swifter, and thrived. And surviving wasn't the only thing obtained..."

He turned to Finche, "You're a botanist. How long would it take you to identify an edible plant?"

"Edible?" the man frowned, "Well, not all parts of any given plant are edible, but, if you'd give me a specimen..."

"No, no," Porter smiled, "You'd have to go out, on the run, and pick any plants, fruits, what have you, and identify them on the spot, not name them. She doesn't need names, she just needs to know if they can be eaten."

"I'm sure she's a competent scavenger," Hemp drawled, "But our friend Finche, here, is an _educated man_, Porter."

"Educated enough to feed himself without being poisoned?" Porter inquired, "Educated enough to find food while being pursued by creatures just as hungry as you are and not inclined to share, or, in fact, having more of an interest in eating you? Can he find food that quickly?"

Porter looked to Finche, "Really, can you?"

Finche was wisely not speaking at this point.

"And..." James continued, "Can you fend off things inclined to eat you? Guns run out of ammo, my friends," his finger gently fingered the blade handle, "And they need much care and coddling to work right in the first place. And could you find your way out of a jungle when lost?"

He smiled, "Can you eat without fire? Sleep without walls? Run without falling? Survive teeth and thorns and poisons with little more clothing than what you were born with?" he gestured shamelessly to his own partial lack of clothing, "I had to learn how. Still am. And she has done these things all her life. She makes tools, identifies plants, hunts for resources, she creates many things that no one else knows about..."

He grinned at Hemp, "And you say she lacks the intelligence to survive."

Hemp, now furious at the implications from this _bumpkin _that a savage _woman _was more educated than he, stood up.

"This port is going to expand," he hissed, "Civilization is going to correct and catalogue this _rock_, and your precious _Missing Link _is either going to fall out of the way or submit herself to being the dregs of society. And what can you do about it?"

Porter looked up at him idly, "I could exact the rights of my status as a local and honest civilian and condemn your 'business' in the opium trade." As Hemp gaped Porter stood, holding the knife, still smiling, "Or I could drag you outside and break your face for insulting my wife."

Murmuring uprose at the mention of 'opium', and even more at the mention of 'wife'.

Finche was spluttering, "Opium? _Opium?! _The—the very idea!"

"Do be quiet, Finche." Hemp said quietly, blank-faced, "You can't prove anything, Porter. Life with a savage has deluded you."

"What's this, then?" the man asked, holding up a tobacco pouch with a very distinct scent of incense. "A sample?"

With a light shake, a treacherous off-white-beige powder scattered on to the tabletop.

Betraying himself, Hemp quickly patted his coat, "You—how _dare—?!"_

"You shook my hand and judged me," Porter said, handing the pouch back, and still _smiling_, "So I did the same."

He looked around as a few men here and there tensed. There were rewards for turning in opium sellers.

"How fast can you run, gentlemen?" Porter asked. The answer was quite quickly, as the pair rushed for the door, followed by a few opportunistic bystanders, and James sighed, sheathing the knife, wiping off the table, and going back to rescue his tea.

A few people clapped politely for the show.

"You've cost me a few customers, Monsieur Porter." Dumont commented dryly, putting the glasses back out.

"My apologies. Someone will pay in bounty money." Porter replied briskly, sorting through his letters.

He began to write a few to England, a couple for the banks, a few friends, and one for Law Enforcement concerning Finche and Hemp, should they show their ratting faces again. He would have liked to have been violent, honestly, but he was better than that.

"James?"

The entire room's occupants, and none more quickly than James, looked to the door.

She stood in the doorway, a slightly tense hunching to her shoulders, holding a package.

Her hair was dark and long, almost ropy in its matting, and part of it tied back in a warrior's knot, showing her angular face and cool, sharp, liquid green eyes. Her skin was dark and taut over her musculature, lightened here and there by scars. And she was almost naked and barefoot, with nothing but a loincloth and a rough tunic on her body. And there was a ring on her hand. Many if not all the crowd gaped.

"Tarzan!" he said, smiling, moving quickly to his wife, "Are you alright?"

She nodded, eyes scanning over the patrons, and Renard Dumont leaned on his counter, smiling warmly, "Bon après-midi, Tarzan!"

She smiled a little, eyes slightly wary, "Hello, Renard."

James scowled, and looked at the package as they moved to his table. The crowd was still watching, "Tarzan, darling, what's this?"

"Porter-Mum forgot to give this." the wild woman said, indicating the postage marks, "And...you were taking long."

She looked at the door, "There're people hunting people out there. What does that mean?"

"Nothing you need be concerned about, dear." he told her, giving a warning glare to everyone else, "Just good sports."

She blinked, and then smiled, and went to give the package to Dumont, who made her promise to come by for a drink on the house.

Her movements were quiet, controlled, almost overly so, and strangely graceful, as if she'd run at any time.

She quietly moved back towards James on her way out, leaning in.

"James was defending his place today," she told him softly, grinning, "James was an Alpha. I'm proud."

She kissed him on the cheek, and then moved much more quickly through the door, where straining onlookers watched her vault up on to roof, and heard her move back towards the forest from there. Porter wasn't blinking, and looked much more flushed, and Dumont sniffed, grinning.

"You are a lucky man, Porter..." the Frenchman commented drily.

Porter nodded stiffly, getting a round of laughter from the patrons.

He went to hurry through his letters, eager to get back home to his wonderful, beautiful, _most_ perceptive wife.

That day had been a very entertaining one for the customers of the Trading Post.


	7. Chapter 7

James squinted carefully at the shard of mirror, holding the cherished razor as close to his face as he reasonably could, bandages and alcohol (for medicinal purposes, honest) on hand for just in case. He'd tried to convert, really he did, but flintstone cut it just a little _too_ well.

A smooth stroke under the jaw nearly turned into a neat slash across his jugular as the most _wretched _sound rent the air, causing him to jump.

He quickly caught the razor, wrong end up, before he could drop it. Whew...

He whirled around to pinpoint the sound, eyes wide, the ritual abandoned as a mere neat streak of pink skin along his jaw line.

Was something _dying_?!

He twitched as that noise started up again, visceral and...and coming from their room?

"Tarzan?!" he bellowed, dashing out of the bathroom to see her half-out of the window, coughing while bracing her hands on its frame.

He was torn between running to her or flinching back as she made that _noise_ again, the cause now all too clear.

Tentatively, remembering past experiences where he'd accidentally startled his wife, he approached her to hold back her hair, nervously, barely rubbing the skin of her back out of some hope to comfort her until the episode passed.

"S'rry..." she mumbled afterwards with a rasp, wiping off her mouth as she slumped against the wall, holding her stomach.

"It's alright, Tarzan," he told her, morbid curiosity making him lean slightly out of the window to check at the distant foliage below.

No evidence of her distress. There were many good advantages to living in a jungle.

"Did you eat something bad?" he asked, noting with concern her continued paleness.

She frowned a bit in confusion, already chewing on some dried mint to get the bad taste out of her mouth, thinking of what construed as 'bad', and he corrected himself, "Tell me what you've eaten lately."

And she did. The list started out pretty typical, and then quickly bridged into the surreal.

When she finished, her husband blinked, "You ate all that the past few days?"

"Since last dinner." she corrected him, and then kissed his cheek carefully on the strip he'd shaved. "Good morning, James."

"So all's normal, then?" he laughed weakly, and she just smiled up at him, before going to the rain barrel to 'brush' her teeth. James and his mother had come up with a handy device to purify the water the barrel collected.

Tarzan was intrigued by the taste, though oftentimes was put off by its relative blandness.

He touched the place affectionately, then remembered the rest of the stubble. He blinked, "Razor." and ran back to his business.

"Bad meat, maybe?" he wondered, contorting his face comically to reach the stubborn facial hairs, "Well, she's often eaten it...raw... Maybe a disease? Admirable immune system, but really, had to slip up at some point..."

He paused, blades to his upper lip, as he considered all that she'd eaten, and how often they'd kissed...

He shrugged, nearly jostling the razor up his nose with the gesture.

"Immune systems are marvelous things." he commented, making a note to not think while shaving.

* * *

"Seriously, though," Terk said, laughing nervously as Tarzan retched into an innocent bystander of a fern.

"This thing you got...it's not _contagious_, is it?"

"You—_guh_—let me know if it...is_-uh_... _Uh-hurk!_"

"Right, sure, I will. . . Hey, wait a freakin'—!"

* * *

After a few mornings of upset stomachs, James was understandably worried.  
Nothing was really wrong aside from the vomiting and her sudden ease of getting fatigued, but it was still concerning him.

He'd finally convinced Tarzan to stay still for his mother, as the wild woman let the older one examine her.

Mrs. Porter checked the back of her throat, and then felt along Tarzan's stomach and hips.

"James, be a dear and fetch us some tea." she told her son while smiling, who hesitated before he did so.

She turned to her daughter-in-law, "How often have you and James, er, consummated recently?" she asked bluntly.

Tarzan had the knowledge to blush, showing that James' mannerisms were rubbing off on her, "Many times."

"When's the last time you bled, love?" Mrs. Porter continued after a polite pause.

Tarzan blinked, "The cutting blood or _that_ blood?"

"The second one."

Tarzan frowned as she thought it over, and an expression crossing between relief and confusion came over her face.

"It's been a while." the 'savage' noted, feeling along the place that would usually bring her pain when bleeding.

"Thought so." Mrs. Porter grinned, patting Tarzan's stomach, just as James came in with a mug of the tea.

"I'm going to be a grandmum." she proclaimed happily.

The mug shattered on the floor, hot tea spilled on the young man's shoes, and the young man did not notice.

Tarzan stared.

Mrs. Porter looked around, beaming at the blank faces.

". . . Ooh, that's right, I must go tell Kala!"

She kissed her son's face on the way out, "We'll discuss nurseries later, James, and of course, the matter of christening. Good job!"

His jaw fell open as his mother left.

Husband and wife stared at each other.

"G-Grandmum?" James stuttered.

"Christening?" Tarzan asked.

* * *

"She's WHAT?!" Terk shrieked, gaping at Mrs. Porter.

Kala just laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

She still liked to travel where she could, but she was slower, for her, and had to be much more careful, or so James told her, and this made her feel uncomfortable, vulnerable. Her own body was becoming a stranger to herself, and she's confused about what to feel. She felt more comfortable with her spear now more than ever, as both a defense and a walking stick, had taken to tying back her hair completely, and felt even more comfortable with less clothing, now just in her loincloth again, and making promises to James and Porter-Mum to go nowhere near the port or other people. It was almost like before James.

She looked down at herself and gave a slight grimace-laugh. Almost.

She climbed, feeling heavy, and clumsy, though not as tired as she had been, and sat down to rest and to think.

She thought a lot, lately.

She shifted slightly on the branch, frowned, and tossed the loincloth entirely. Hah.

She sat back again, putting her hand on the growing swell of her belly.

She wasn't too heavy yet, but where there'd usually been flatness was now this strange bump that startled her sometimes.

It's not like she was unfamiliar with pregnancy, had seen all stages of it while living with the troop.

But _seeing_ it with the mothers and to-be mothers with their still-sort-of-strength and slowness and long-time nesting and the sweet fur was different from suddenly _being_ or _becoming_ one, and she was feeling much more naked, much more fur-less, much more...uncertain.

For one thing she had to walk differently, more on her two feet instead of her four.

She was going to be a mother.

She stared at her stomach, and at the little stranger growing in it, and was caught again by bad thoughts.

She'd had these bad thoughts for a while, but hadn't really told them to James. She was afraid to.

. . . Before she was too far along, and was too unsure, she had to find Porter-Mum. Kala was her gorilla mother and teacher.

Porter-Mum would be her human one.

She moved carefully through the trees and branches towards the nest-house-home.

* * *

"What if she's unhappy now because of me?!" James groaned, staring into the dregs of his teacup, as if wishing for the gift of divination, or more tea, or for perhaps something other than tea. "What if I'm a terrible father? Or-or what if there are more Claytons or bloody Philanders or Staquaits or—_aargh_, I'm taking her _life _away! We were both of us too young for this, and she didn't know! _I__ should've_ known, _I_ should've—!"

Decency and the remembering of his present company shut him up.

"Well, you don't have to shout at your tea for it," his mother said primly, "And it's rather, er, late for second thoughts, isn't it?"

Her son's forehead hit the table, and she smiled slyly to herself. He was a good boy, really, if somewhat excitable.

"She looks beautiful, doesn't she?" she continued.

". . . Yeff. . ."

And she really was.

She was in the later part of the second trimester, at the 'cute' stage, where enough of her stomach had grown without appearing gigantic. While pregnancies in this state were admirable in the women of England, on Tarzan it bespoke something...sweetly primordial, as things involving Tarzan would...

She'd long forgone most pretenses of clothing once her physiology began to change, and honestly Mum hadn't blamed or minded.

James hadn't minded either, though he was understandably...agitated.

Tarzan was obviously influencing him, because he'd felt many 'instincts' lately about his wife, which made for interesting think-studies relating the drives of base humanity compared to the norms of civilisation, but..._his_ **_wife_**...

With her dark skin, pulled-back hair, straighter posture, and that cute little slight waddle she'd been getting that stirred him strangely...

He wanted to keep her in sight more, and out of sight of others, feed her more, protect her more, _feel_ her more...

He flushed, thankful his expressions (and other indicators) were kept in the privacy of his arms and the table.

Where soon-to-be mothers he'd seen before he simply labeled as soon-to-be mothers, Tarzan was...honestly she was a veritable fertility idol.

Beautiful, sensual, adorable, strong, vulnerable, and she was his, and that way because of him, for him...

And then the other side of the coin showed its judgmental face.

She was that way because of him. How could he have changed her so much? How _dare_ he?

The scientist in him chastised him constantly for 'tainting' the perfect specimen that was Tarzan, for tainting her with the outside world and bringing her into conflict with it. How would they raise the child? How could he ask her to? Would it be another 'Tarzan'? Would she be able to truly love it while it slowly became an alien to her? Would he be able to let their child become an alien to either world? If it came to it, could he let them both go?

_. . . Whose eyes would it have?_

Why was he such a despicable human being?

_Blue or pink?_

He'd been an irresponsible, foolish, selfish person to go into this without planning.

_'Nest' or cradle?_

What kind of environment was he bringing this child into?

_Could he import a schooling packet?_

**Medical records**, you didn't keep an exact tab on medical records, you _dolt_!

He blinked as a tea strainer was swinging gently in front of his face.

"Just checking." his mother laughed, and he flushed, when they heard a creak on the windowsill.

"Hello." he heard Tarzan say from the window.

He turned to her quickly, and then stared.

"**Argl**." James said eloquently.

"Hello, dear!" his mother said, admirably unfazed, "Good weather?"

Tarzan nodded, stepping in carefully while using her spear as a support, and James quietly continued on through his personal purgatory.

". . . I brought fruit, Porter-Mum." she continued after a moment, carefully offering up a pineapple.

James thought half-coherently that when he saw a pineapple from then on he'd have to take pause and quietly review his life.

"I would..." Tarzan began, and then looked uncomfortable, "I would like James to...take care of this fruit, and talk to Porter-Mum about..."

Tarzan glanced at the table, "Tea?"

Suddenly James was shoved out of his chair, "You heard your wife, James Archimedes Porter, go take care of the lovely pineapple!"

He dumbly walked towards his wife, painfully aware of her and of the fact that his own mother was in the room.

"Nice..." he began to comment, to just _say something_, and then found lack of things to comment besides _everything_.

"Tarzan looks nice." he finished, and quickly took the pineapple, heedless of its rather painful spines, and quickly left the room.

Clearly, there was more to this than pineapples and tea, though he honestly couldn't scavenge the brain cells to question it.

There were more immediate concerns to take care of that required his attention anyway.

* * *

"Well," Porter-Mum said after James left, "I appreciate your trying to use 'distraction and diversion', Tarzan, very good effort. Though in your current state of, er, undress, there was too much of the first and a rather lot of zip on the second.  
We both know you know him enough by now to know _that_.  
Here, at least wear a tablecloth before the poor boy comes in again and faints or something. New house-nest rule."

"It is good weather." Tarzan replied, smiling perhaps a bit more than she should have.

She made a spare tablecloth into a makeshift toga, and was about to sit down.

Porter-Mum raised a finger, "Where do spears go, darling?"

Tarzan hesitated, "Not at the table." she remembered, and propped it carefully beside the window.

"Good girl!" the older woman praised. "Now..."

She smiled, "Is this really about tea?"

Tarzan looked ashamed at the tabletop, ". . . No."

"I heard something about pineapple?" the window spoke again.

They both turned to it, and Tarzan smiled, "Mother!"

She got up, with maybe a little difficulty, and went to embrace Kala, who chuckled as she looked at her daughter.

"You look lovely," Kala told her, brushing her knuckles carefully over the bulge partly concealed and displayed by the tablecloth.

She looked to Porter-Mum, "She's healthy?"

"Yes, everything looks fine, so far." the woman told her, "We were just going to have some female-bonding and potential gossip over the pretense of discussing tea. Would you like to join? I could scavenge some more eats, but..."

"I'd love to," the gorilla replied, laughing, "And don't worry." she held up an impressive armful of other fruits, and everyone grinned.

* * *

After an impromptu bowl of fruit salad mess was on the table, everyone got comfortable, and Tarzan said what was on her mind.

"I don't know how to take care of a baby." Tarzan sighed.

When Kala frowned she corrected herself, "A human baby."

She scratched her head uncomfortably, one hand naturally placed on her swelling stomach.

"Gorilla babies, yes, but James' babies?" she looked sad, "I don't know, and worry I will be a bad mother to James' babies."

"Well, fortunately you're talking to some women who both have experience with that..." Porter-Mum laughed, and Kala smirked.

Tarzan blinked in realization at her gorilla mother, who patted her hand, "Tarzan, first off, there is going to be some 'knowing'..." Kala told her, and smiled, "When I first found you, I tried to put you on my back. You couldn't grip, so I carried you in my arm. Feeding you was no problem, though, you'd eat pretty much everything I tried feeding you, especially when your teeth came in." She grinned, "And some things you learned yourself to not eat."

Tarzan made a face, remembering those lessons.

"You want to learn about human babies?" Porter-Mum asked, and both Tarzan and Kala looked interested.

She grinned, "I'll go get my scrapbook!"

* * *

"Babies will cry a lot," she warned them, setting the impressively thick book on the table.

"For food, or discomfort, or for reasons we don't really know. How did you deal with Tarzan, Kala?"

"She learned to cry properly quickly," Kala recalled, "But it was still for very much those reasons. But her cloth helped with her messes, since she didn't have fur," Tarzan blushed, picking at her tablecloth toga, "And then it seemed that the cloths would be Tarzan's fur."

"I'd wondered," Porter-Mum observed, "Why she'd worn anything in the first place. I guess it's because she always did."

"I _got _my own fur." Tarzan felt the need to point out, "Sort of, later on." she grumbled.

"Lullabies helped when she cried." Kala said with a smile.

"James was always good with Sleep, Baby, Sleep for a while," Porter-Mum commented, talking about Tarzan's husband, "Until it was his Father's turn to tuck him in, then he learned the singing version of the table of elements, so I stuck with that ever since."

She then noticed Tarzan and Kala's slightly misty smiles, and coughed to herself, "He was an owlish little boy, even as a baby. Here."

She gestured proudly to pictures of a chubby baby boy with impossibly huge eyes.

Tarzan and Kala both instinctively 'cooed' and 'awwed' and giggled at what was Tarzan's first observation of a human baby. And it was James.

She glanced at her stomach, and then at the picture. Would this picture one day be something that was _hers? _

Of course it would.

Then Porter-Mum told them the stories behind the pictures.

Everyone would laugh.

Then Kala told of Tarzan baby stories.

Then Porter-Mum and Kala would laugh and Tarzan would defiantly curl around her own stomach.

Then Porter-Mum found more photo albums.

* * *

James came back later to stacks of books taking over the tea table, and found Tarzan relatively clothed (both a relief and a disappointment) and Kala keeping the other two females company. Then he saw what was in the books they were perusing with such interest.

He coughed, and the women looked up at him.

"So, how goes the talking about..." he glanced pointedly at the picture books, "Tea?"

Tarzan's grin broke out first, and then a chuckle escaped, and then they all started laughing.

James gave a well put-upon sigh, "How did you get all these here from England, Mum?"

"I have my ways, dear. Ooh-ooh, I found the one of you in your Dad's cricket helmet! Oh, look at this! Aww, how old were you, two?"

He looked at the picture. It was the one where he wore _only _the cricket helmet.

Tarzan's husband's forehead met the tabletop with a solid _thunk_.

Kala patted him gently, still wiping mirthful tears from her eyes.

* * *

. . .

* * *

Tarzan was resting on her side, facing James as he got into bed.

"I will love your baby, James." she told him, before he'd blow the lamp out, and he looked at her.

She was smiling, "I _will_ be a good mother."

"And I will love _your _baby," he replied tiredly, with a soft smile, and blew out the light before giving her a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, to her shoulder, her neck, small, sweet touches in the dark, before holding her to curl into him, sharing their subtle body heat, "_Our _baby." he continued, yawning in spite of himself, "And I hope to...to be a good father..."

"You will be." she told him, watching him as he fell asleep.

She looked down at her stomach, their baby, at the bulge of her body that rested between theirs, and noted how James' hand rested on it, instinctively, and put her hand over his own. She smiled, quietly, needing only to know, and let herself drift to sleep, imagining three hearts here in the nest-room...

Two worlds.

Three hearts.

One family...


	9. Chapter 9

The scream of the jungle's guardian pierced the false dawn with more loudness and fervor than any beast had before managed.

It echoed throughout the green, damp canopy and mist-layered sky without hindrance, startling things that looked warily about for the predator, and causing predators' ears to prick and eyes to narrow, as if searching for what challenged them without challenge.

In the distance, a gorilla troop stirred, and looked at each other, affirming. They knew. Kala smiled.

It was not her bellow of triumph, nor her announcing yell, but the basest expression of defiance and pain that her body had never experienced.

Tarzan _howled_ again at the sky in her rage and this alien _pain _until her throat gave out again, laid out on the balcony on top of cloths surrounded by lights while Porter-Mum did things and said things Tarzan didn't understand, telling her she was doing _well _she was doing _wonderful _just let it all out, love, push, push, push...

James was huddled in the room just inside, having been told so by both women (Well, Mum really had just told him to stay there, Tarzan had just glared at him most pointedly, and oh Lord he was a horrible person), watching as well as he could as Tarzan gave another heart-piercing screech, and he prayed.

She did not need to scream any more, and just focused on her body as it tensed and sweated and glared up at the sky, and then felt _oh that stings... _Tarzan gritted her teeth, a last, drawn-out growling groan as..._as_...!

Well done, love! Porter-Mum said while she gasped, beautiful, _beautiful_, I have him, rest now, rest, dear, James, _James..._

A new type of crying rose into the air, small, hiccupped, and shrill.

Tarzan's eyes snapped forward, and she struggled to sit up, holding out her arms.

Hers..._hers! _

It was still messy, and loud, yet so hot and so small, and _pink_, and she blinked down at it as it—as _he _whimpered and was turning his face towards her chest. She fed him, and he was quiet as he blindly suckled.

She blinked again, staring as she held this soft little stranger to her, stunned.

"J-James..." she mumbled hoarsely.

"I'm right here, Tarzan," she heard him at her shoulder, looking down at their little stranger, "He's-he's our _son _Tarzan, he's—!"

James sounded choked, and Tarzan smiled tiredly, leaning back against her husband.

"He looks strange." she said after a moment of thought, and he laughed weakly, kissing her sweaty shoulder.

"All babies do, love... You did _wonderful_..."

She winced a little and switched the baby over, who protested only slightly before feeding again.

". . . What do we call him?" she asked after a moment, panicking a little. They'd talked about names, but now that he was _here_...

"I think 'James' would be a little portentous." he chuckled.

"I like James."

"I like me, too. But let's give the chap his own name, hm?" a hand cautiously stroked that small, hot, fuzzy, damp scalp.

She suggested some gorilla names, and James smiled a bit nervously.

"They're nice, but I'm not sure those'll work, dear..."

"They're strong names." she pointed out.

"We want a name that _everyone_ will consider strong. You know how humans are." he joked.

Tarzan sighed, thinking.

"Samson?" she asked, remembering the strong man from the Bible.

"Hmm..." James leaned his chin gently on her shoulder. "You like that name?"

She nodded, a strong son was a good thing, a strong name would define him, and protect him.

"Sam for short?"

She nodded, looking down at their little one.

"Samson Tobias Porter," James continued, "Tobias was my father."

Tarzan frowned, going it over, "Long name..."

"Well, I'm James Archimedes Porter. And my father was Tobias Nicodemus Porter. We have a history of long names."

"It makes it fun to talk about the family tree," Porter-Mum spoke up, coming back with food for Tarzan. "What do you think, love?"

Tarzan blew air through her nose, and sniffed at her child. He smelled bloody, yes, but was new, and hers, and James'...

"Hello, Sam." she told him quietly. Sam didn't answer, but that was okay.

James didn't say anything either, but he just _grinned, _and looked wet around the eyes.

* * *

. . .

* * *

Later, the gorilla troop would whoop and howl and celebrate, and Kala made a special nest for the nest-room for her grandson.

Porter-Mum would write letter after letter after letter of announcements to people in London about her first grandson.

Later, James would take his own time to howl, but away from the home, because it was Sam's first naptime.

Even later, when both her husband and her son were at the moment asleep and safe, Tarzan would go out and climb to the tallest tree she found. She'd look up at the cloudy, starry sky, and not howl, but simply smile.

Her body was empty, and soft, and tired, but triumphant.

She did not need to howl her triumph, when her body and the new little life at home was enough to show it.

Her son had made her howling for her the moment he took his first, beautiful breath...


	10. Chapter 10

Something was being hunted this day.

The being ran among the tree trunks, scampering over the roots and nearly tripping at times, breathing hard through the nose, small hands grasping at earth and vegetation to fuel its flight, branches slapping against its skin and face as it nearly whimpered, hearing the crash of its chaser behind it. Its flight was futile, as its pursuer was almost upon it, stronger, swifter, and _inescapable_.

He shrieked as his pursuer caught him up, tumbling with him through the foliage, growling and snarling and baring her teeth.

The shrieks turned to laughter as the pursuer promptly tickled him.

"Slow boy!" Tarzan laughed into her son's face as he tried to squirm away from her poking, switching between gorilla and human as she spoke, both of them giggling like mad as leaves and dirt stuck to them in their wrestling, "Slow boy, slow boy, you are eaten! _Groawr!_"

"No!" little Sam shrieked in a laugh, tugging on a lock of his mother's hair, protesting as only a six-year-old could, "No, no! I'm not food!"

Their crazy tussling slowly settled as they both ran out of breath, scrambling turning to simple holding while they rested.

"Not food." he repeated after a moment, now feeling a bit grumpy that he still couldn't outrun Mama.

Tarzan chuckled, letting the boy climb clumsily to her shoulders, where he began to pick debris from her hair, "But Sam is sweet!" she told him, an endearment she'd learned from Porter-Mum. He wasn't _really _sweet-tasting, but Tarzan knew it was a love-joke. So she liked saying it.

"Not food, Mama." he stated stubbornly as he settled down, and she laughed, "It's food time anyway, isn't it?"

He nodded and held on to her with his little legs, heels digging into just above her collarbone as his tiny hands gripped near her forehead, and she began to climb, and he automatically leaned in to avoid knocking himself on branches.

Tarzan paused, and shook her head, nearly jostling her son.

"Not good." she told him, and carefully moved him down so he could be piggybacked.

He obeyed quietly, and she moved on, and Sam watched their surrounds go by as they went Nest-Home.

* * *

. . .

* * *

"Hello, Sam!" James said, and let Sam climb into his lap. Sam was typically quieter around James, and that might've been because Tarzan was, as well. Sam liked to watch James draw, especially when he drew pictures of family. Sometimes James would have spare paper and charcoals with colors and let Sam make his own pictures, a few of which were pinned around the walls.

Some, however, while James had said they were nice, had to tell Sam they were Too Special To Be Seen, or sometimes, Not Good For Company. Sam didn't have much trouble accepting this, and James wanted to preserve his son's open mind until he was old enough to be Educated. Those Special Pictures were typically the ones where Tarzan hunted or 'got comfortable'. Those ones tended to use a lot of red and brown, respectively.

Later, though, when Sam was asleep, James would sometimes indulge in his own epicurean version of the Special Pictures, with Tarzan's input.

Hopefully, Sam would never understand James' reservations until he was older.

* * *

. . .

* * *

Dinner was a baked mango dish with pork that the family liked, and though Sam ate what he was told to, he quietly tried to avoid the fruit and its stickiness. Mama was much less messy than Papa said she'd been, but she still liked using her hands over the forks and knives. Sweet, hot, syrupy mango juice coated her fingertips, which she politely and quickly licked when it seemed decent to.

Sam wasn't allowed to use his hands much at Nest-Home, unless it was Grandmama and Mama's eating time out in the Jungle-Place.

He didn't like getting sticky, anyway. So he ate a bit like Papa and Grandmum did, except he had a special spork instead of a knife and fork.

He scooped up a chunk of pork with it, chewing carefully. Then something hurt in his mouth.

He blinked, and jawed careful—_hurt! _Something was loose in his mouth, hurting his tongue and feeling weird.

He poked it with his tongue, frowning a little.

Then he decided to bite down, hard.

_Nnnrk! CRACK._

He blinked slowly, carefully, and did his best to not cry or show he wanted to cry as his mouth hurt and quickly tasted like blood.

Grandmum was looking at him, though, so he made it look like he was chewing, feeling that broken, hard thing move around his mouth like that one time he'd accidentally eaten a bone, and it felt _weird_... He worked at it again, and shivered.

He had to spit it out now.

"Facil'ties!" he announced quickly, dashing out of his chair to another room, holding his hand to his mouth.

When he was sure they wouldn't find him, he carefully spat into his hand.

He made a face at the gross, bloody spit and not-so-chewed pork and that little white thing.

He frowned, peering at it as he tossed the partly chewed food out a window, wiping his hand on his pants cloth.

He blinked, and, cautiously horrified, worked his tongue around again in his mouth.

_Gone_, leaving nothing but an empty spot and the taste and gicky-warm feel of blood and gum.

He panicked, looking at this little bit of himself that he broke.

He broke his mouth!

Then he felt someone behind him.

"Sam is okay?" Mama asked.

He turned around quickly—Mama was too quiet—wide-eyed and seeing her stare at him with Mama's thinking look.

She blinked, "You're bleeding." she told him worriedly, wiping a finger under his lip and he saw his bloody spit he'd spat out, and she was looking down at his hand, and the little tooth that showed that he broke it.

He broke his mouth, and that was a Bad Thing.

Sam couldn't help it when he sniffed, feeling his eyes start to sting and his mouth hurt and _he didn't know how to fix it_.

"I-I-I'm _SOOOORRYYYYYYY_—!" he cried, and through his tears, Mama didn't look mad, but looked very, very confused.

* * *

. . .

* * *

Later, when they'd managed to calm Sam down enough they told him about baby teeth. Tarzan even told him how she'd spat teeth out a lot when she was little, and how he grew his in when he was littler, and that he'd get new, big teeth.

Sam looked down at his lost tooth and understood he was Growing Up.

Tarzan had a moment of learning something new, when James told her about the Tooth Fairy job and how cherished losing teeth was.

Tarzan thought it was strange, but decided to explore the idea for her son's Growing Up.

* * *

. . .

* * *

The next morning, Sam was confused and slightly pleased to wake up to find a small, Sam-sized flint knife under his nest-bed pillow.


	11. Chapter 11

"—honestly _can't _approve of this kind of behavior," James chastised, examining the rips in his son's shirt, doing his best to not be flustered, while Tarzan was already calmly applying a poultice to young Sam's eye, which had already swollen shut with its bruising. Sam winced, but it was a defiant wince, but he still looked ashamed. "It's bad enough that you fought at the docks, but _starting _one?"

They'd agreed, he and Tarzan, long ago, that they would never shout in front of their son. Only logical, calm discussions were allowed. If something required further discussion, they would take it in private. Given that this discussion concerned Sam, James was worried they'd have to take it in private.

"He had won, though," Tarzan replied, equally calm, thumb smoothing out the paste.

"He won against the many. But you will say your sorries, and no more biting," she looked her son in the eye, "Yes?"

A mixture of pride and reluctance crossed the boy's dark face as he nodded, and James tossed the shirt aside.

"Who won or lost isn't the point," he protested, "The point is that one should _never—_"

"They were calling you a drunkard, a quack, and a madman," Sam told his father, finally scowling.

James scowled too, but it was more out of exasperation than anger, "I don't care what I'm called, Samson, I care about what happens to y—"

"And they called Mum something impolite." his son said again.

That made James blink, and Tarzan paused in her administrations, but only briefly, checking the boy's knuckles.

"What did they call her?" James asked quietly.

Samson told them.

James' face set, while Tarzan merely blinked.

"We'll need to work on your boxing proper." James told him briefly. "But that still wasn't appropriate of you."

"Yes," Tarzan continued, having had time to think, "While you defended your place, some fights aren't worth the things gained." She showed him some of her own scars, "Some things are stupid to fight for. Today you have stupid scars, but those aren't always avoided. So later try to make the better ones, and fight for things worth fighting. Names are little things. Food isn't. Lives aren't. Gain scars for those, not for names."

She brushed over his knuckles with her own, "Honor these stupid scars by making up for them, and say your sorries."

As she went to clean up, James patted his son on the shoulder.

"Talk with me later," he murmured, "And I'll teach you more about 'politics'."

Sam, confused, and chastised, nodded.

* * *

. . .

* * *

By the next week, Sam had made new friends, the same who'd he'd met fists with, and was already learning how to play football. Sometimes Tarzan would watch these games with curiosity, and was slightly confused as to why these boys spoke much more nicely than she'd been told. Their parents were nice, too, and it was interesting to hear about the children from the eyes of their mothers.

Of course, people come and go, as the friends and football players and their families did, but James, in later years, would be an avid fan of a football team who took inspiration from a 'Samson T. Porter'.


End file.
